


Red Chrysanthemum

by craple



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-14
Updated: 2013-04-14
Packaged: 2017-12-08 09:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/759768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/craple/pseuds/craple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It does not bother them at first, the first time Grantaire misses a meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red Chrysanthemum

**Author's Note:**

> this is like self-indulgence more than anything; too much words and so little dialogues, i can bore myself with it, but hey, a little e/r is kind of what i need right now, seeing that i probably won't get any ragnar/athelstan action, except the one in wondercon when travis proposed to have sex with george on the table asdfghjklakjhgsfd
> 
> so. uh. yeah.

It does not bother them at first, the first time Grantaire misses a meeting.

Musain is always more crowded during the weekends, which means more enthusiastic students who share the same vision of being truly free; more members that would always lead to a couple of drinks for celebration at the end of the night. No one takes note of Grantaire’s absence within their crowd, except Feuilly who asked the moment Enjolras started talking, answered by a casual shrug from Bahorel, but that was it.

Combeferre notices, of course, because it is Combeferre – second in command, most observant of them all, as it is expected of him – and Combeferre _always_ notices. He does not voice it aloud due to the importance of tonight’s meeting and as their leader Enjolras cannot be distracted by trivial things.

The lack of Grantaire’s appearance tonight is probably caused by intoxication, although Combeferre highly doubts it, since intoxication has never stopped the man from coming before, but. Priorities must be prioritised, and as such, Combeferre simply books it in a small isolated corner of his mind for further inspection later, preferably after the week has ended.

He can always ask Grantaire tomorrow night too anyway, when the man comes in to outdrank Bahorel under the table. For now, Combeferre thinks nothing of it, as he hands the pamphlets to each student who looks interested, and reminds Enjolras of everything that needs to be said and done.

* * *

Seventy minutes through the meeting, Enjolras falters mid-speech. Like he is taken aback by something someone says, or in this case, more like something someone does _not_ say, and it takes a while for Combeferre to realise what could have possibly caught their fearless leader off-guard.

Across the room, Jehan seems to notice too. The poet’s eyes are full of questions, cocking his head to the side where the stool Grantaire often claims is now seated by another, eyebrow arching as a way to communicate his confusion to Combeferre – who simply mimics Bahorel’s response precisely seventy minutes ago.

To be honest, Combeferre cannot understand why it would cause trouble for Enjolras with the lack of Grantaire here; it just is.  Enjolras speaks with passion and conviction, his voice carries the surety every man needs to be convinced that something like this, something such as _freedom_ truly exists.

No one doubts every single word Enjolras utters, as it is impossible for them to do so when deep in their heart, hope sparks, unconsciously, at the thought of happiness where every man is free to speak without the fear of authorities beating them to death, of the perfect world Enjolras speaks of. They are students, after all; young and idealist and full of hope – it is hard to resist the thought of revolution when it is offered atop the silver platter riches own inside their polished-wood cupboards.

Grantaire on the other hand, is a cynic who does not believe in their cause or share their belief. He is reasonable, a realistic young man who is somehow categorised as one of the most talented artists like their Jehan – loveable, cheerful Jehan, with his words and his voice and his imagination – and isn’t imagination is what, precisely, every artist needs? Imagination is what fuels an artist’s desire to create a masterpiece; it is their ability to transform their imagination and feelings into something everyone can also feel and enjoy.

Yet somehow, Grantaire, despite being an artist, lacks the imagination of the beautiful, beautiful world Enjolras envisions, that _everyone_ envisions, continues to test them with his hard-truths and cold-facts. He is the perfect role of the Devil’s Advocate in their not-so-little Revolutionary group, the perfect opposite of the pure, pure Enjolras.

Without Grantaire around to remind them of what the real world truly is like, there is nothing to ground them back to reality, no one to argue with every single thing Enjolras has to say without turning it into a heated banter to prove how _human_ Enjolras really is.

Somehow, as more and more people start coming into the cafe, introducing themselves to each other and making a place for themselves in their group, Combeferre cannot, for the life of him, convince himself that this is a good thing.

Marius, with his sweet easy smiles and flailing hands, excitedly announcing that ‘they should return when a friend of theirs, Grantaire, is here, because he and Enjolras make a fantastic banter together!’ within Enjolras’ hearing-range, seems to agree with him.

Discreetly, Combeferre slinks into the shadow hidden behind a student’s back between Courfeyrac and Jehan as Enjolras makes his way toward Bahorel. The man almost has as large as or lesser appetite toward wine as Grantaire does and while it is not often or even _heard_ of, it is said that he had outdrank Grantaire once, back when the two of them plus Feuilly still lived together and their parents could not care any less.

Eponine – now where did _she_ come from, honestly, Combeferre will never know – sneaks beside him, leans over, whispers into his ears, “Who are we spying on?” and her voice is all mischief and slurred, without the edge she usually has when she is sober and broken-hearted over a man who will never love her back.

Combeferre mentally berates himself for being so rude and judgemental over someone he barely knows. The Enjolras in his head (Enjolras is obviously in _everyone_ ’s head) is judging him so hard right now. He places a finger on Éponine’s lips then points it at Enjolras’ way.

She looks – and _giggles_.

Combeferre barely able to contain the frown off his face, but Enjolras begins speaking before he can ask what is so funny, so he listens to his friend instead.

“... I was wondering if Grantaire’s alright.” Enjolras is saying, his voice calm and measured, his face gives nothing away but the expression of a concerned friend. One might think he is – but Combeferre has known Enjolras better than that to think of such.

It is true, that Enjolras looks like he can care less, that he is expecting something trivial like Grantaire has caught the cold or the like. Everyone can see it on his face, the expectation and the friendly concern, but it is too measured by half, and as a psychology major and the one who taught Enjolras how to create that face, Combeferre is not fooled.

Bahorel seems honestly surprised that Enjolras does not know of Grantaire’s well-being at the moment, he chokes on his drink, spitting water all over the counter. Combeferre tries to hold back a flinch whilst Éponine muffles a laugh using his sleeves.

Her voice is a smoky-sort of rasp like Grantaire’s own, her laughter a bell in his ears, the warmth of her breath against the back of his ear an unwanted yet not unpleasant distraction from what Bahorel is saying.

“... When Jehan asked me, I thought he was the only one who did not know. If even _you_ have not heard of it by now, Enjolras, then I assume no one knows of Grantaire’s project?”

 _Project?_ Combeferre thinks, tilting his head in confusion and almost gets caught of eavesdropping in the process. Luckily, Éponine presses him back into the shadow, her arm a grounding weight across his stomach as she leans closer to his ear.

“Grantaire is hired for a painting exhibition at the new grand opening of a gallery two towns away,” Éponine informs him. “It is supposed to be a secret between the four of us – me, Bahorel, Feuilly, and Grantaire himself – though I assume it will not be anymore, if Bahorel continues to speak, drunk as he is.” Blunt nails are digging into his hip, and Combeferre’s brain short-circuits momentarily as the smell of Éponine’s breath goes through his nostrils the closer she gets to him.

She stinks of wine, Combeferre thinks, more so than usual. Combeferre knows for a fact that she is not stocked enough to buy a wine, unlike Grantaire who produces money by flashing a smile; telling an unsuspecting store owner a charming story to get himself liked and hired, which means she was from Grantaire’s place, wherever it is.

No matter how many times people say Grantaire is an open-book, Combeferre always knows better. That the man is the most private of them all, that he barely trusts their genuine smiles and kind offers and careless laughter; that he is a destructive time-bomb waiting to be lit, that he’d still follow them all to their early graves despite the many times he had graced them all with his cynicisms.

Combeferre sighs. Sometimes, it really is hard to be the reasonable one. He would change everyone’s Enjolras to be everyone’s Combeferre as the voice of reason. Combeferre pushes Éponine away, slings her arm around his shoulder while the other rests around her waist. She stumbles and laughs, but follows and gives Combeferre a bright smile of happiness.

Yes, Combeferre is going to kill Grantaire after. For now, he will protect the secret of a man he will kill later. “If you, Feuilly and Bahorel are the only ones he told, that means he wouldn’t want Enjolras to know, would he?”

“R will probably castrate Bahorel’s balls later,” Éponine agrees. “Nice as they are.”

When Combeferre simply arches an eyebrow in response; Éponine pouts, petulantly so. “What? I was drunk – they were hot. It was bound to happen.” She raises her chin as if in defiance, and Combeferre cannot help but laugh.

It is not like he has not heard of it, the foursome between the four of them the night of New Year’s Eve. Joly was the one who was unfortunate enough – or in Courfeyrac’s case, _fortunate_ enough – to stumble mid-sex into Grantaire’s unlocked bedroom. He started rambling about diseases and the lack of condoms in the room and – honestly, Combeferre does not need that mental image branded to his brain _ever_ again.

“Excuse me, Enjolras,” Combeferre says, cutting off whatever ramble Bahorel is on, giving an understanding smile at the panic-looking Feuilly. “I believe these two are ready to go home.” He gestures at Éponine, practically draping herself all over him and using him as a weight-support, then at Bahorel, who literally swallows every single glass given his way.

Feuilly brightens in relief and immediately jumps off the stool. “Yes, yes,” he says. “Wouldn’t want them to get hurt, what with tomorrow’s classes and all.”

Enjolras frowns in the most adorable fashion possible. If Grantaire is here, Combeferre is sure he would be saying all kinds of stuff about Enjolras’ frown, undoubtedly turning the man into a flustered mess in place of the fearless leader he was. “But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Enjolras says.

Combeferre nods without knowing what exactly he is agreeing to. “Precisely, that is why we must leave. Come on, I’ll bring them to your car, Feuilly.” Feuilly does not waste a single time, bolting out of the cafe as quickly as possible, leaving Combeferre to two very much drunk individuals, each clinging to his body like an octopus.

Once he finally manages to get them both outside without any damage, Feuilly’s car is already parked, the backseat door opening as he helps Combeferre getting Éponine and Bahorel inside. “Will you be alright?” he wonders, pushing Éponine’s boots-clad feet under the driver’s seat.

“I can always drive you. You’re heading to Taire’s place, are you not?” he has always been curious of where and how it looks like anyway, and hopes Feuilly misses his double intent in a drunken haste.

Unfortunately, Feuilly does not, and he narrows his eyes at Combeferre before shaking his head and murmuring a few thank you lines. “Thank you for the drinks and the, uh.” Feuilly gestures at Bahorel and Éponine’s sleeping figures on the backseat. “I will text you later.” It sounds uncertain and questionable, so Combeferre nods quickly.

“You should,” Combeferre assures him. “I’m worried about Éponine. This is the first time I have ever seen her so drunk.” Which is a lie, obviously – after all, New Year’s Eve is not exactly something that will be hard to forget – but. Combeferre takes what he can take. “Also whether or not R is going to show up tomorrow.”

Feuilly smiles apologetically. “I’m afraid not,” he says. “I just lost twenty Francs to Courf because Enjolras was not acting the way I expected him too, with Grantaire gone. It was very depressing.”

Combeferre has to smile at that. “Yes, I can imagine. I wasn’t expecting him to notice his absence, but he did. Though, instead of improving, he was unsettled and surprised, not in the least pleasant, as far as pleasant goes. In fact, he was more distracted than ever.”

“Yeah.” Feuilly agrees, easily. “I don’t suppose I should tell this to Grantaire?” there is a slightly bitter tone in the way he tells Combeferre this and it must have been a surprise on Feuilly’s part too, the sudden resigned feeling he has on Grantaire’s behalf – as he blinks and leans back in surprise as well.

“Forgive me,” Feuilly says, clearing his throat. “Seems like I’ve had too much wine tonight. I better leave. Goodnight, Combeferre.” Without waiting for Combeferre’s echoing farewell, Feuilly drops bodily into the driver’s seat and slams the door close so hard the entire car shakes with it.

* * *

It has been precisely seven days, eleven hours, and twenty-three minutes since the last time Grantaire came to a meeting.

According to the waitresses of their beloved Musain, Grantaire has neither visited nor passed by the cafe in the last week of his absence, which of course, leads many people to believe that he has truly died of a natural disease that is alcohol poisoning. Except no one believes Grantaire _could_ die of alcohol poisoning because Grantaire _is_ the alcohol itself but the point stands.

Joly is currently worrying himself to death while Bahorel and Feuilly are trying not to look too conspicuous or out of place from their place at the bar stool. Combeferre is trying to ignore a fidgeting Enjolras by subjecting himself to the horror that is – whatever it is he is reading for his philosophy class, some book or another that is probably as displeasing as watching Enjolras fidgets.

Most of the students are getting restless as well. Enjolras blames this solely on Bahorel, who keeps avoiding his eyes since the moment they stepped into the cafe. His mood sours when he spots Éponine sneaking out of the back door. Courfeyrac visibly flinches at the murderous look flashing across his face and clears his throat.

“We should probably put the meeting on-hold, yes? My dear friend, uh,” obviously panicking, Courfeyrac looks around, before looking like he is mentally praising the angels above as he drags Cosette closer to his side. “Cosette here has a morning class tomorrow and she has successfully convinced me to let every tired-looking person in this room to go home.”

For some reason unbeknownst to Courfeyrac and only known to Enjolras _and_ Combeferre – Enjolras is positive he is seething with rage at the terrified flirt holding onto Cosette with his dear life.

“Tomorrow is _Saturday_!” he grits out, a venomous hiss through clenched teeth. Jehan yelps and ducks beneath the counter.

Unconsciously, the students crowding the cafe look down and bare their necks, a submissive reflex gesture when one is scolded by someone of a higher position. Enjolras thinks Combeferre would find this fascinating, if Combeferre had been paying attention.

Grantaire would most definitely point their behaviour out and mock them for it, possibly making a few dog jokes or two, and Enjolras’ nails are biting into the palm of his skin so deep they might actually bleed.

Combeferre – blessed his soul or his stupid bravery or just the epitome of awesomeness named Combeferre in general, closes his book. Marches forward with an aura of serenity and places a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder; a steadying pressure that is neither imposing nor a warning. He simply puts it there for Enjolras to see, does not remove it until Enjolras breathes deep then just... relaxes.

The strained atmosphere in the room suddenly lifts, just like that, and everything returns to its cheerful friendly state where Courfeyrac paces around and Jehan sings them a lovely, lovely poetry and Joly explains to Bousset the danger of anger and the physical exhaustion that comes with it.

Enjolras is very much aware of the effect he has on people, how _his_ mood appears to affect _theirs_ as well, the way everyone does what he asks of them not for the pretty face Grantaire often compares to Greek masterpieces but for the way he composes himself.

He does not care of Grantaire more than he does anyone else in this room.

What he cares about is the fact that the artist leaves without any notes or news of whether or not he is still alive whatsoever, resulting in the worried looks his group of friends start shooting each other when they think Enjolras is not looking, and it makes Enjolras angrier at the cynic more than ever.

Loosening his fists, Enjolras deflates. He sits back against the deep scarlet longue behind him, leans his head back against the cushion, and assures himself that Grantaire is alright, that this is nothing special in the worst sorts of way, that he does not overreact over Grantaire’s absence.

This is normal, nothing new. Joly will fix his wounded hands later and scold him for unconscious self-harm and how can you hurt yourself so, Enjolras, if you are so worried, you can always make a call or a visit to Grantaire instead of harming yourself, no?

And it feels like a punch in the stomach, when he thinks about it. Enjolras does not know of Grantaire’s number or even _aware_ that Grantaire lives alone. From the unorganised way Grantaire presents himself to the world, Enjolras simply assumed that he lived with Bahorel and Feuilly or even with Éponine at the darker side of the city.

Once, he thought Grantaire lived at the dorm like the rest of the students short on income, although that idea was shattered to pieces when Éponine laughed at his dumbfounded look after they told him Grantaire does not like sharing a space with anyone other than Grantaire himself.

He does not know that Grantaire actually owns a functioning cell phone, or that Grantaire collects a lot of first-edition books, or that Grantaire is – _was_ – engaged in a healthy established relationship with someone, before, until _life_ happened. Enjolras does not know what to make of it either, when he discovers the fact that he is more disturbed by the latter more than the former matter.

Gathering his wits, Enjolras glances up at Combeferre then looks pointedly at the direction of Feuilly and Bahorel, knocking their glasses together and linking their arms as they swallow down a bottle full of absinthe down their throats. Combeferre’s lips purse and he has that pinched look on his face whenever he disagrees with Enjolras’ idea – but alas, after a minute of intense staring competition, Combeferre sighs in defeat, nods once, and follows Enjolras as he makes his way to Bahorel’s stool.

Enjolras does not think Bahorel or Feuilly will recover from the flashes of threats both of them gave out soon, but he cannot find it in him to care as he memorises Grantaire’s address to heart and wonders why in the seven hells is he doing this when he barely tolerates Grantaire on regular basis.

The thought of seeing Grantaire again though, well and fine and smirking at him under his ridiculously thick lashes in that mocking way of his is enough make Enjolras forget of the whys.

Combeferre wisely does not ask.

* * *

There is a guy in Grantaire’s flat, opening Grantaire’s door, who looks positively debauched.

Enjolras considers punching the guy in the face for – what, exactly, he cannot remember, but it must be important because there is nothing more he wants to do than just that. It takes him a full forty-eight seconds to realise that no, the guy is not exactly a _guy_ but Éponine dressed in Grantaire’s button-down shirt. The jeans are too small to be Grantaire’s, though he does not ask.

Éponine takes one look at him, blinks, wipes her eyes with the bunched material of her sleeves then does a double-take before jumping out and closing the door behind her with a decisive thump.

A stack of paper held together by a thin red thread rests against her chest by the strength of her arms alone, and there are splatters of ink and the faint scent of glue and paint coming off her clothes. Enjolras wonders when the last time she took a proper bath was or the shirt last properly washed but decides against it when Éponine flushes a deep shade of scarlet in embarrassment.

“Enjolras,” she begins, her tone oddly nervous as she licks her lower lip twice.

Very nervous then, Enjolras thinks. Éponine is not an easily-flustered type of woman; the Les Amis regards her higher than that and she never disappoints. Jehan always licks his lips when he feels nervous or guilty or wants to get laid. Courfeyrac licks his lips when he does something stupid and does not want to admit it. Éponine _never_ licks her lips for anything less.

“I, ah, did not expect to see you here.” She nods at Combeferre who gives a hesitant smile in return. Éponine returns her attention back to Enjolras. “So I would say ‘fancy for a cup of tea’, except it is late – _ridiculously_ late, I might add – so that is just, no. Is there something I can help you with? The sooner the better; I’d like to get back to the comfort of my bedroom.”

“That would be nice and all,” Combeferre says, suddenly, just as Enjolras is opening his mouth to speak, and he huffs at Combeferre in annoyance but lets him speak. Combeferre smiles calmly at the both of them. “Only we both know this isn’t your place, Ponine.”

There is something akin to defeat in Combeferre’s voice, which makes Enjolras blink in surprise. “Just let him in, get this thing over with. I’m sure everyone is sick of his antic with the lack of Grantaire there to play the devil’s advocate to his righteous fury.”

“Better get him back in shape before the students run off, you mean.” But Éponine does move aside, letting Enjolras peek into the large loft at the top of the building he is still not sure belongs to Grantaire.

When Combeferre turns around and Enjolras is setting his right foot into the room, Éponine catches his arm in a vice grip and downright _threatens_ , loud and clear, “Be easy on him.”

Enjolras is not even sure _what_ she is talking about, he is not here to patronise for whatever it is he is doing locked up in this admittedly lovely loft, he is simply _worried_. “Whatever you think, do not say it aloud, for his sake.” She finishes with a firm painful squeeze around the base of his elbow then follows Combeferre into the elevator.

Nine Inch Nails is drawling _‘I wanna fuck you like an animal, I wanna feel you from the inside’_ seductively over and over through the speakers on the second floor like they are not speaking of obscenities, no matter how much like sex the singer’s voice is, and Enjolras is seriously questioning Grantaire’s taste in music, if just he doesn’t have an entire box of Nine Inch Nails hidden in his closet.

On a simple, black-polished-to-shine coffee table, there is a platter of sandwich cut to small pieces with a toothpick sticking in the middle. Next to the plate is a large Starbucks go-to-cup coffee, and beside it a new pack of cigarettes Enjolras remembers Éponine bought from the store across Musain after she left some time ago.

Picking up the plate and the cup carefully close to his chest, Enjolras glares down at the red-golden pack, nudging it forward with the tip of his shoe until it falls onto the floor. He clamps down the urge to beam smugly at the defeated pack of cancer-sticks – you shan’t defeat me, before climbing up the spiral staircases into the second floor where, according to a traumatised Feuilly, is Grantaire’s bedroom _also_ Grantaire’s studio.

And, true to his words – Combeferre is buying them flowers later, Enjolras will make sure of it – there is Grantaire, in his infamous dark-red knitted cap, a pair of loose worn-out pants, black thick socks around his feet, yet without any shirt whatsoever as he paints; long slender fingers occasionally smudging the paint to shape, nails caked in too many colours to identify, curled black hair stiff with paint, the skin of his face barely recognisable under layers of green-purple-red staining his cheeks.

The canvas Grantaire is painting at is not the size Enjolras has expected it to be. It is large, not overly so, but large enough for Enjolras to know Grantaire’s been working on this one for days, possibly the reason why he hasn’t come around Musain, only, at the corner of the room, there are at least four other paintings waiting to dry next to each other.

Four bottles of fine-wine are lying about his feet. There are more packs of smokes than he can count of littered all over the place, and Enjolras can barely make out the shape of a darkening mattress under the window due to the amount of laundries piling up on top of it.

None of this must be comfortable, Enjolras thinks, observing the room some more. Chaos is the word he would use to describe the state of which Grantaire’s bedroom is presently in, with the couch as the only furniture in the room that is neither paint-stained nor littered at or clad in dirty shirts. It makes him a bit angry, somehow, that Éponine let something like this to happen, yet he is also feeling guilty for not knowing sooner. If he had, maybe the room wouldn’t be such a mess, then.

Maybe Grantaire would be wearing some clothes on, and Enjolras wouldn’t be staring at the graceful line of his spine; the brown and yellow and grey paint staining his shoulder blades, the elegant Celtic knots above his arse and wrapped neatly around his waist.

Enjolras does _not_ stare, he resolutely simply does _not_. He trips over his own words and his own feet – a pile of balled-up thick papers from Grantaire’s sketchbook, Enjolras supposes – and freezes halfway through his walk of shame when Grantaire barely _flinches_ , barely acknowledges Enjolras’ existence over his own painting, and Enjolras is not used to this.

He is not used to Grantaire’s sole focus not on him, not used to Grantaire’s attention somewhere far away when Enjolras is right there in the room with him. Enjolras berates himself for being too much like a child craving for attention, because he is _not_ a child and he does _not_ crave for Grantaire’s attention. It simply is, that he is not comfortable with changes, unsettled by it but welcomes it otherwise, as he too is trying to change something of sorts here, with the help of his friends and Grantaire and whatnot, and adaptation is something of a must for him.

When Enjolras inches closer, the sight of Grantaire fills him with a sense of terror and fascination. Unlike any other painter on the street he has met before, Grantaire paints like he is not in this world – in the most literal, frightening sense of way.

His eyes are glassy and clouded – like the eyes of one who is high on drugs yet at the same time they’re not. His eyebrows are pinched together, the corner of his lips curved down in an unpleasant grimace, and he looks so _angry_ as he paints, more furious than focus really, it’s hard _not_ to imagine him snapping the handle of the brush between his long slender fingers and bury it into the softening flesh above Enjolras’ heart down to the hilt.

 He shakes the images off in lieu of snapping his fingers right near Grantaire’s face. Receiving no response in return, Enjolras places the cup and the plate on top of the night stand beside the mattress, clearing the surface off with the back of his palms, and proceeds to clean the rest of the mess in the room.

If Grantaire is not responding to him now, might as well wait by doing something productive until he does.

(Assuring himself that no – he does not care of Grantaire more than he does anyone, not really.)

* * *

Turns out, when he has set his mind on something, Enjolras can be really, really _intense_ on seeing it done, he doesn’t realise it’s been three and a half hour since he began cleaning Grantaire’s room.

For some reason or another, he ended up falling asleep on Grantaire’s couch, and wakes up to Grantaire throwing himself bodily across said couch, only he lands on Enjolras instead and Enjolras cannot _breathe_ due to Grantaire’s head crushing his windpipe.

Predictably, Grantaire screeches, falls over to the floor, and swings the nearest object he can find – in this case, an empty flask of wine – to Enjolras’ head. Enjolras silently thanks Combeferre for convincing him to take the _parkour_ class during his sophomore year when he not only successfully dodges the attack, he is able to catch Grantaire’s wrist the same time Grantaire tries to deliver a punch to his ribcage.

“Grantaire, _calm down_!” Enjolras hisses, tightening his grip around Grantaire’s fist. “It’s me, it’s me,” he says, pins Grantaire in place with his knees digging into Grantaire’s sides, and Grantaire freezes and –

He relaxes. Blinking owlishly, cocking his head to the side, and gives Enjolras the most impressive frown yet. “Apollo.” Grantaire deadpans. His voice is rough like he hasn’t been using it, or like he’s been _used_ and – Enjolras is _not_ going there.

Enjolras has never liked that particular nickname from Grantaire; he’s been given quite a lot, too, though for some reason, _‘Apollo’_ is the one that bothers him most.

Instead of rolling his eyes like he really wants to, except Grantaire won’t be able to see it anyway, in the darkness of his loft, Enjolras says, “You haven’t been coming to the meetings. Everyone is worried. I’ve been here for,” he looks at the clock. Two o’clock. Just perfect. “Four hours, but you did not even notice me coming.”

At that, Grantaire flushes a deep shade of scarlet; the soft orange city lights pouring through the windows illuminating his face for the briefest moment, long enough for Enjolras to carve the image into his brain to dissect later. He clears his throat and Enjolras is just too tired, worn-out and it’s been too long, he cannot resist the urge to watch his throat works.

It is fascinating.

“Sorry, it’s uh. I’ve been told – by Éponine, Feuilly, and just Bahorel really – that I was quite _frightening_ , when I paint. It’s a... habit, of sorts.” He looks at Enjolras apologetically then grins. “You’re not the first one to be completely unnoticed by my great-self.” Enjolras snorts in exasperation, only it sounds more fond than annoyed.

Grantaire is hovering awkwardly between Enjolras thighs, which lead Enjolras to finally realise that he is still holding both of Grantaire’s hands in his own, that they look absolutely ridiculous, so close like this, he lets Grantaire go as if he’s been burned.

In the darkness, he does not notice the look of hurt in Grantaire’s blue, blue eyes – but then again, he rarely does.

Enjolras clears his throat and watches Grantaire getting up on his feet. The lack of warmth is surprisingly noticeable he has to bite his lip from the gasp threatening to escape. He swallows it down instead, counts to ten until his head clears, before he is reminded of Grantaire’s bed, cleared out of the laundries Enjolras has piled downstairs; the fresh smell of new sheet replacing the old one.

“I made your bed and hang up the sheet,” Enjolras tells him, stretching his body and listens to the shift of his bones. “You can sleep on that. I’ll sleep on the couch.”

When it looks like Grantaire is going to protest – and, really, he _should_ know that Grantaire is going to protest, as he is Grantaire after all, and no matter how much of a drunkard cynic he is, Grantaire is still a decent human being who will not let his guest sleep on the couch – Enjolras suggests, calmly;

“Or we can both sleep on the bed and talk about how you’ve been making everyone worried by neither showing up nor texting us to know that you are still alive and well in the morning.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, Enjolras knows it. He knows himself well enough to realise when he is being too controlling or overprotective of someone he cares about. Grantaire is his friend, after all. Not one of his closest, not in the way Combeferre is to him or Courfeyrac is to him but. It’s close.

Grantaire rubs his palms against his pockets and fishes his phone out. Once it is turned on, he shifts the light to illuminate the room. The slight panic and several of uncomfortable expression are obvious in his eyes, blue as they are, bright and startling and too much beneath his black-ink curls. “You cleaned my room,” is all he says. Then he starts to look around wildly without alarming Enjolras which is just _adorable_ for him to think that he actually _could_.

Standing up, Enjolras puts his hands on Grantaire where his neck meets shoulders, squeezes them once to ground him back to reality.

It is not as if Enjolras does not _know_ , really. Enjolras has a few friends from the arts department, specifically in the painting section. Most of them are as carefree as Grantaire is on daily basis, but once they are hired for an exhibition or commissions, Enjolras never sees them again until they are finished with their works.

He understands now, why Éponine keeps this as a secret from him. Why Feuilly stops looking at him in the eye anymore and why Bahorel barely speaks with him and avoids him at any cost, any opportunity he can find.

Once, Enjolras had said something quite cruel – he had said _many_ cruel things – about the pretentiousness of the riches; how they’d rather spend their money on fancy paintings than give it to the people, how they’d rather look rich by the expensive frames hanging on their walls than helping the starved children on the streets of Paris.

Not one of his best moments, certainly, because he was aware of Grantaire’s major and Grantaire’s job, he always has, it’s just that he was not aware of Grantaire’s presence nor Combeferre’s disapproving looks boring holes through his skull.

During his cleaning of Grantaire’s room, Enjolras stumbled upon the gold-trimmed invitation hidden amongst the great mystery that is Grantaire’s stacks of books. Some have been translated to English, while others remain original.

(He doesn’t even know that Grantaire can speak more than eight languages, excluding the dead ones, which Enjolras is sure he has mastered quite a few from the biblical parchments in one of the drawers.)

It was there that Enjolras found the invitation, between _How to Kill a Mockingbird_ and a German novel he can neither read nor understand, and it was there where he found a check enlisting a large amount of money Éponine would literally _kill_ for.

Not to mention that it is only _half_ the price of what they have promised Grantaire – it was then that Enjolras noticed that, not only he is talented; Grantaire has not been, in fact, using illegal ways to get his hands on dirty money. It makes him guilty and disgusted of himself for even _thinking_ about it.

Enjolras wonders if this particular aspect of him is what made Grantaire decide to keep it a secret. He wonders if Grantaire assumed that, had he told Enjolras sooner, Enjolras would think less of him because of the people he associates with. Except, Grantaire does not care much about that, no – but what was it then, that made him so secretive?

“I would not think any less of you for being hired with a large sum of money, Grantaire.” Enjolras says, _announces_ more like. Grantaire’s eyes alight with _something_ Enjolras does not like, and his laugh is as bitter as the cold coffee sitting on his nightstand.

“Of course,” Grantaire drawls, leaning back and away, with a smile that does not reach his eyes. “That’s probably because you _cannot_ think any less of me, as I am already at the bottom of this circle of life.” He laughs a dark, self-deprecating laugh. “Life is such a cruel fucking bitch ain’t she.”

Enjolras’ jaw clenches because, no, that is not what he meant at all, stop twisting his words like that, but – he cannot say that, not now when he is tired and exhausted and he misses Grantaire –

He has been _missing_ Grantaire –

(Everyone had known, of course.)

He _cannot_ deal with this right now.

“That is not what I meant,” Enjolras replies smoothly, tugging at the loose belt buckle around Grantaire’s waist to distract him from saying anything at all that will eventually result in a loud verbal fight at two fucking o’clock in the morning. He is pleasantly surprised when it works, and Grantaire is looking at him in shock more than surprised, really, like Enjolras has lost his mind. “You always do that,” he continues, finishes.

It’s weird, because Enjolras wants to see more of this side of Grantaire he does not manage to see when their friends are around. Enjolras wants Grantaire and everything, but he can’t have it all. So he puts the thought away for a moment and distracts Grantaire from speaking by pulling the belt off his person, manhandling him toward the bed in the process.

They drop down easily enough, surprisingly. Grantaire is pliant under his hands, his care, until he is _not_ – let’s face it, this _is_ Grantaire after all, he never goes down without a fight – seeming like he wants to say something, something that will ruin them both, again and again and again like it has always been when it’s the two of them.

Enjolras does the one logical thing that comes to his mind:

He wraps his arms around Grantaire, pulls him close until Grantaire’s teeth are clashing against his collarbone, and he doesn’t even care if Grantaire’s lip is split or that he’s practically chewing around Grantaire’s black curls; Enjolras non-consensually cuddles the _shit_ out of Grantaire because it is the only logical thing that will likely shut the painter up with a percentage of more than eighty percent.

“We will talk in the morning.” Enjolras promises. This time – only this one time – Grantaire acquiesces, burying his nose into the crook of Enjolras’ neck, letting Enjolras takes care of him soundlessly even though his mind is a running train-wreck.

Maybe he does not want to fight about this one too, Enjolras thinks. Not when it’s still dark outside at least. He tucks them both under the covers and rests his head against the top of Grantaire’s head and dreams of red chrysanthemum and the sparkling sapphire of Grantaire’s eyes.

For now, it is enough.


End file.
